‘And I, I’ll never sharpen anything under a rapier or a dress sword for the Court,’ said a knife-grinder; ‘we have been living like canaille hitherto—nothing better.’
‘À l’Empire, à l’Empire!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices in concert; and the glasses were drained to the toast with a loud cheer.
Directly opposite to me sat a thin, pale, mild-looking man, of about fifty, in a kind of stuff robe, like the dress of a village curate. His appearance, though palpably poor, was venerable and imposing—not the less so, perhaps, from its contrast with the faces and gestures at either side of him. Once or twice, while these ebullitions of enthusiasm burst forth, his eyes met mine, and I read, or fancied that I read, a look of kindred appreciation in their mild and gentle glance. The expression was less reproachful than compassionate, as though in pity for the ignorance rather than in reprobation for the folly. Now, strangely enough, this was precisely the very sentiment of my own heart at that moment. I remembered a somewhat similar enthusiasm for republican liberty, by men just as unfitted to enjoy it; and I thought to myself, the Empire, like the Convention, or the Directory, is a mere fabulous conception to these poor fellows, who, whatever may be the régime, will still be hewers of wood and drawers of water to the end of all time.
As I was pondering over this, I felt something touch my arm, and, on turning, perceived that my opposite neighbour had now seated himself at my side, and, in a low, soft voice, was bidding me ‘Good-day.’ After one or two commonplace remarks upon the weather and the scene, he seemed to feel that some apology for his presence in such a place was needful, for he said—
‘You are here, monsieur, from a feeling of curiosity, that I see well enough; but I come for a very different reason. I am the pastor of a mountain village of the Ardèche, and have come to Paris in search of a young girl, the daughter of one of my flock, who, it is feared, has been carried off, by some evil influence, from her home and her friends, to seek fortune and fame in this rich capital; for she is singularly beautiful, and gifted too; sings divinely, and improvises poetry with a genius that seems inspiration.’
There was a degree of enthusiasm, blended with simplicity, in the poor cure’s admiration of his ‘lost sheep’ that touched me deeply. He had been now three weeks in vain pursuit, and was at last about to turn homeward, discomfited and unsuccessful. ‘Lisette’ was the very soul of the little hamlet, and he knew not how life was to be carried on there without her. The old loved her as a daughter; the young were rivals for her regard.
‘And to me,’ said the père, ‘whom, in all the solitude of my lonely lot, literature and especially poetry, consoles many an hour of sadness or melancholy—to me, she was like a good angel, her presence diffusing light as she crossed my humble threshold, and elevating my thoughts above the little crosses and accidents of daily life.’
So interested had I become in this tale, that I listened while he told every circumstance of the little locality; and walking along at his side, I wandered out of the city, still hearing of ‘La Marche,’ as the village was called, till I knew the ford where the blacksmith lived, and the miller with the cross wife, and the lame schoolmaster, and Pierre the postmaster, who read out the Moniteur each evening under the elms, even to Jacques Fulgeron the ‘Tapageur,’ who had served at Jemappes, and, with his wounded hand and his waxed moustache, was the terror of all peaceable folk.
‘You should come and see us, my dear monsieur,’ said he to me, as I showed some more than common interest in the narrative. ‘You, who seem to study character, would find something better worth the notice than these hardened natures of city life. Come, and spend a week or two with me, and if you do not like our people and their ways, I am but a sorry physiognomist.’
It is needless to say that I was much flattered by this kind proof of confidence and good-will; and finally it was agreed upon between us that I should aid him in his search for three days, after which, if still unsuccessful, we should set out together for La Marche. It was easy to see that the poor curé was pleased at my partnership in the task, for there were several public places of resort—theatres, ‘spectacles,’ and the like—to which he scrupled to resort, and these he now willingly conceded to my inspection, having previously given me so accurate a description of La Lisette, that I fancied I should recognise her amongst a thousand. If her long black eyelashes did not betray her, her beautiful teeth were sure to do so; or, if I heard her voice, there could be no doubt then; and, lastly, her foot would as infallibly identify her as did Cinderella’s.